Leap of Faith
by Hekate1308
Summary: He had fought and fought and fought and had nothing to show for it but a complete surrender and a feeling of shame that he'd ever really fought at all. Anderson Post-Reichenbach. Now with second chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is another Anderson Post-Reichenbach story, however, it's not related to any of my other fics. It's simply me trying to actually give him character development. I know.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

He had fought and fought and fought and had nothing to show for it but a complete surrender and a feeling of shame that he'd ever really fought at all.

It had taken time, but that didn't surprise him. The fight within himself, between the (somewhat selfish) side that firmly told him Sherlock Holmes had invented all the crimes, that he had been the psychopath he'd always known him to be all along, and his more rational, forensic side, the one that looked at the evidence that was piling up in Sherlock Holmes' favour, hadn't started until a few months after his suicide.

When he'd heard the news, he hadn't been surprised, like most people seemed to be. He had always considered Sherlock Holmes selfish and narcissistic, and apparently realizing that his lies had been discovered, he hadn't been able to live with the consequences. That didn't mean, however, that he'd rejoiced either.

Sally had called to tell him. He had known something must have happened immediately; her voice was strangely flat.

Apparently the first policeman on the scene had informed DI Lestrade – naturally, everyone at Scotland Yard knew about the connection between him and Sherlock Holmes – and Sally had been with him in the office. Anderson had been busy processing evidence, so hadn't really seen much of the search for Sherlock Holmes and his partner in crime, but it wasn't difficult to guess that the DI had been far from enthusiastic.

He knew Lestrade had quite liked the psychopath, even felt a little sorry for the DI. But he definitely wasn't delighted or happy that Sherlock Holmes was dead. And neither was Sally, for that matter.

He thought his feelings could best have been described as "grim satisfaction". For a long time, he had wanted people to see Sherlock Holmes for what he was.

He just hadn't wanted him to die in the process.

So, all in all, in the beginning, it hadn't been difficult to deal with Sherlock Holmes' death. He had felt a little guilty (he was human, after all), but that had been it. A psychopath had taken his own life. The world was better off without him.

He hadn't gone to the funeral; neither had Sally. First of all, he hadn't wanted to pay his respects were none were due, and second of all...

They had heard, of course they had heard, everyone who worked in law enforcement in the city had probably heard, about how John Watson had been made to watch Sherlock Holmes jump from that building, and how badly he'd taken it. He had never had anything against the doctor; the man might have been a little too gullible (and, after he had dug the bullet that had killed Jeff Hope out of the wall and concluded just how far away the shooter must have stood, he had started to suspect that he had shot the cabbie to save the psychopath, but he wouldn't have done time for it anyway), but he wasn't a bad person. And Anderson didn't want to cause him any more pain by showing up at Sherlock's funeral at what the doctor would undoubtedly call a "triumphant" manner.

Then, a few months after the funeral, the change had begun to take place, and the fight within himself had started.

He now thought it had been on the day he had confirmed for the first time that Sherlock Holmes had been right.

His old cases had to be re-examined, of course. DI Lestrade hadn't been suspended for some reason, and he was glad for it; Lestrade was a good police officer who had been taken in by a clever psychopath.

Nevertheless, he had been honoured when the Chief Superintendent had asked him to process the evidence again. True, he had been rather annoyed that a few months had to pass before he was asked to do it, but one couldn't have everything.

So he sat down at his table and started processing. Despite what the psychopath might have thought, he was a good forensic tech; he knew what he was doing. And that was one of the reasons he'd never been happy with having Sherlock Holmes at his crime scene. He didn't like people grabbing evidence, doing all kinds of strange experiments and, on some occasions, even removing it from the files or the scenes.

The first case he worked on was the murder of a man whose son had been convicted of the crime three years ago.

Naturally, he knew that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have "invented" this crime; he had been at the crime scene himself. But he thought it more than possible that the psychopath had framed the son and then proceeded to "solve" the case.

The only evidence he had was the murder weapon – a knife. Sherlock had found it in a gutter a few days after the murder had been convicted. They had found the son's blood on it. If it had been put there to frame the son, there must be some trace of it; it had to have been smeared on the knife, for example, or maybe he would find that the blood had been preserved for a while before landing on the knife. Yes, the son had had a cut on his hand, but he had claimed that someone had bumped into him the night before and had accidentally cut him with something he'd been carrying in his hand, and he didn't put it past Sherlock Holmes to think of wounding the suspect.

But no one, not even a psychopath, could perfectly recreate someone stabbing their father when they hadn't. So he set to work.

Only to have to admit to himself three hours later that Sherlock Holmes had been correct, the evidence hadn't been tampered with and the son had really killed his father.

Sherlock Holmes had been right.

He quickly caught himself, however, before he could start speculating whether the man might have been better than he'd supposed after all. He had proven him right in one case, just one. Sherlock Holmes might simply have got lucky.

So he spent the next days, weeks, months investigating all the crimes Sherlock Holmes had solved, and he found out soon enough that, whenever there was evidence, it pointed to the man or woman Sherlock had proclaimed guilty.

The Chief Superintendent wasn't exactly pleased with his findings, but he hadn't expected anything different. Come to think of it, he would have thought that he himself would be more angry at finding out that Sherlock Holmes had been right about at least one thing. But he wasn't.

Because the fight had already begun, and he was clinging with all his might to the belief that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have solved the other cases too.

But he had, at least all the cases Anderson was allowed to look at, until it was decided from up high that someone "unbiased" should take a look, and another forensic tech appeared, and he was left to ponder that, as far as he knew, Sherlock Holmes had been right after all.

Sally didn't seem surprised when he told her; then again, she was feeling more guilty than he. He could tell. They had drifted apart, and maybe it was better this way; they had been useful too each other, provided a distraction for each other, but they definitely hadn't been in love with each other. He wasn't even certain they had liked each other very much.

After all of this, his wife leaving him wasn't the blow it shouldn't have been, and somehow, he couldn't blame her. He had cheated on her; then again, he was rather sure she had cheated on him too.

That evening, sitting in the now empty apartment, he realized something else, something that truly made him realize that the side of him that was supporting Sherlock (when had he started to refer to the psychopath simply by his first name?) was growing stronger. He had always assumed that he lived to make people miserable.

So why – even though he had obviously hated him – hadn't he told his wife about the affair? Why had he been satisfied with insulting him and Sally? Why hadn't he destroyed his life, like he had (at least according to the newspaper articles) so many others?

The answer that he refused to believed, at least then, was simple: Because Sherlock Holmes had never destroyed the life of someone who hadn't committed a crime.

And then, there had been the "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" campaign. It wasn't a real campaign, and the people in it had certainly not given it that name; but someone, most likely a reporter (it was only then that he noticed that he'd stopped following the news, the news he'd read and heard at first with such eagerness – so he started to watch them again, only to be confronted with the campaign, but for some reason he couldn't stop) had decided it would be good to reference John Watson's blog (not that he still read it; no, of course it had simply been an accident that he'd decided to look at the page once again after he'd proven Sherlock right about that one case).

Henry Knight – the one whose father's murder Sherlock had solved, and he was ready to believe it, not even Sherlock Holmes would have killed someone while still in his teens – was the first of his supporters to turn up, giving interview after interview.

If it had only been the one, he could have handled it.

But they started piling up.

Sherlock had solved each and every one of their cases.

And apparently he hadn't even asked for money in return.

When he thought about it, and what he and Sally had done, and about the man's suicide, he felt sick.

But he didn't realize how far he'd come until some new forensic guy, on a scene he worked with DI Lestrade, nonetheless, started talking loudly about "the fraud" and asking questions.

He caught Sally's eyes, saw the indecision in them, and realized what she was thinking.

He was thinking the same.

He snapped at the man. "Why don't you focus on the crime scene instead of gossiping?" he hissed, not aware until he had turned around that Lestrade was looking at him. And at this moment, another thought came to him.

Sherlock had been so focused, so passionate about his work that, when he had to face the possibility of never doing it again, he saw no other option but to take his own life. He couldn't prove his hypothesis, but he couldn't disprove it, either.

And that there was something that made him and Sherlock seem a little bit more alike should have scared him more than it did.

He went back to his work, telling himself that this didn't mean that he believed in Sherlock Holmes.

Neither did the fact that he stumbled upon a young man a few days later, spraying a big "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" sign at a protected building, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd given the man a tenner.

And then he heard that not one case Sherlock had worked on had fallen apart. He had been right about everything.

He was starting to think that he'd lost his mind, somewhere along the way, until he realized that he'd simply lost the fight.

He believed in Sherlock Holmes and would continue to do so, and that was the whole truth.

He didn't tell anyone; he didn't have anyone to talk, and he could just imagine what Lestrade would say if he ever told him that he finally believed.

But he usually interrupted colleagues who talked badly of Sherlock. And he went to his grave, finally.

He didn't talk; he simply looked at the headstone, wishing everything could be different.

Then he turned around and walked back to the gate, only to bump in DI Lestrade.

He should have known, really; a case that Sherlock would have been happy about had prompted him to visit, so it was only logical that the DI would feel the same need to pay his respect.

The other man seemed confused, and he couldn't blame him.

"Anderson? What are you..." his eyes trailed to the grave, just visible behind his shoulder, and he swallowed. Then the DI simply said, "See you tomorrow" and walked past him.

He didn't say anything and went home.

The next time he heard someone doubting Sherlock though, he acted. It was in the cafeteria; the man was a young sergeant, wondering why DI Lestrade (thankfully absent) could ever have fallen for a fraud like Sherlock Holmes. He could see DI Dimmock, staring at the man from the other side of the room, apparently prepared to walk towards him –

He beat him to it, however. He had had enough of the silence.

He went up to him and simply said, loud enough so that everyone could hear him, "Didn't anyone teach you not to talk like this about a dead colleague?"

"Colleague?" the man sneered, and the thought that he had looked at Sherlock in the same way stabbed him through the heart, "He invented all the crimes. Everyone knows that".

He saw Dimmock, slowly advancing, looking at him questioningly, and proclaimed, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

Then he turned around and left. If they wanted to laugh, they could laugh; he didn't mind. Nobody would ever take away his belief that Sherlock Holmes had been right.

Even if it had come too late.

**Author's note: Did I just make Anderson sympathetic? I couldn't resist. I wanted to represent him in a different light for once.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: So a reader asked for a continuation, and I decided that it would be better to simply add a chapter. Also I had already started planning this when I got the request – seems my brain wouldn't let this alone.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Things started to change after his proclamation in the cafeteria, although he hadn't thought they would. He hadn't expected anything from finally admitting that he believed in Sherlock Holmes, had perhaps longer believed in Sherlock Holmes than he cared; he had been convinced life would go on the way it always had, he processing crime scenes, waiting for the divorce papers, thinking of Sherlock while doing his job.

And then –

DI Dimmock was the first to react, but then again, he had been the only DI present when he had told the annoying policeman that he believed in Sherlock.

Barely a week after he had uttered the words that had been gnawing on him for months, he got a call to tell him that DI Dimmock had requested his presence at a crime scene.

Thus surprised him, at least at first. DI Dimmock had, after Sherlock Holmes had helped him on a case, been convinced that the consulting detective (and Anderson realized only then that he referred to Sherlock by his made up title now – it suited him, he couldn't deny that) was right, that he had always been right, and had voiced that opinion – which was probably the reason that the Chief Superintendent made sure not to greet him (although Anderson only knew this from office gossip).

He was certain that Dimmock had called Sherlock in on more than one occasion after that first case; he was sure that Dimmock had started to see Sherlock as some kind of colleague; which was why the young DI had been one of the few detectives to defend Sherlock after his suicide, to continue to proclaim that he'd been a great help, to tell everyone what he thought, without caring about the consequences. Sherlock Holmes had a way of changing things – when Anderson had first set eyes on Dimmock, he had been desperate to prove himself, and now he was doing everything to make him unpopular with the Chief Superintendent. And now, here he was, firmly defending the consulting detective, no matter that it could harm his career in the long run (it would, if the Chief Superintendent had anything to do with it). He was part of a small group within the Yard, though.

A small group that Anderson had somehow become a member of, apparently.

And all the proof he needed was that one day a young PC called him to ask him to come to the crime scene DI Dimmock was currently working on, adding that the young DI had specifically requested him. So of course he went there – he had never been one to be asked for, not even before – Sherlock.

Dimmock seemed pleased when he saw him and showed him the body, telling him in a quiet voice, "Sherlock would have enjoyed this".

He simply answered "Yes, he would have" and started collecting evidence.

Dimmock never mentioned the scene in the cafeteria, and neither did he. They both knew they believed in Sherlock Holmes, and it was enough.

Lestrade soon started greeting him on crime scenes, instead of nodding in his general directions or simply ignoring his presence. Of course there was still a rest of blame in his eyes that told Anderson that the DI was thinking – as was he, to be honest – that this new-found belief in the capabilities of the consulting detective wouldn't bring him back.

But still, their working relationship had improved.

Sally and he were slowly getting closer once again, thought not in the way they had been before. They were, however, on their best way to becoming friends, and he certainly could use one now. Come to think of it, he didn't really have any friends.

Naturally, most of the other detectives seemed to think he'd lost his mind and tended to look the other way when he appeared on crime scenes. There were exceptions – Gregson, while not openly supporting Sherlock, never said a word against him or treated Anderson differently – but for the most part, he was considered as strange as Lestrade. Even colleagues who'd treated him politely before everything suddenly turned their back on him when he entered a room, and he would probably have been upset about it, but he was too busy being angry because they looked at him with contempt now instead of after he'd made sure that Sherlock would be arrested.

And then he realized that he could probably claim to be the freak of the Yard now, and he would have laughed if the thought hadn't made him so sad.

As did the thought that, once upon a time he had sighed and protested every time Sherlock Holmes strolled unto a crime scene, and now he desperately wished for him to insult his intelligence once more.

Not that his wish could ever be granted, because not even Sherlock Holmes could cheat death.

Or so he'd thought.

Because one night, a little more than three years after Sherlock's suicide, an obviously excited Lestrade called him and ordered him to come to Baker Street, to collect evidence against a Colonel Moran for having tried to kill Sherlock Holmes.

At first, he thought the DI had lost his mind. He drove to Baker Street with a feeling of trepidation that he might have to call Sally and have Lestrade restrained and brought to a –

And the first person he saw when he entered the building opposite 221B – a young PC had told him where to go – was Sherlock Holmes, talking in his usual way, explaining to Lestrade and John Watson, who both seemed to stare at him like one stared at a ghost (not that he could blame them, he was sure his own face wore a similar expression) how he had found out that Colonel Moran had killed Ronald Adair and was going to attempt to murder him tonight.

The two minutes he needed to do so helped Anderson regain his composure, and he looked at Sherlock, wondering idly why he wasn't angry that the consulting detective had faked his death.

The answer was easy. Because he was deliriously happy he was alive, and nothing else mattered. Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade seemed to think the same, judging by their expressions.

The DI looked more alive than he had ever since Sherlock had jumped (hadn't jumped). Anderson hadn't seen much of Doctor Watson, but he'd spotted him once or twice in a distance, when he'd met with Lestrade, and he'd seemed... paler. Lifeless. Had been limping again.

Now that was all gone. And if Sherlock Holmes was the one who made this change possible, he must be a good man, despite his "sociopath" label.

Sherlock didn't look quite the same, either. He looked – not exactly older, but – care worn. He had definitely lost weight (even more, he should probably think) and he was paler than three years ago. But he was obviously happy to be home. His eyes sparkled in a way Anderson had only see them do when he looked at a body. Now, however, he wasn't looking at remains – he was looking at his friends.

Anderson heard a sharp intake of breath behind and turned around to see Sally holding on to the door handle.

They looked at each other for a moment. Then they grinned because they couldn't help it.

Sally made a sign to tell him she would be downstairs, coordinating everything – obviously she had come upstairs to tell Lestrade – and slipped away.

"Ah, Anderson, here we are again" he heard the familiar voice behind his back. It hadn't changed.

He turned around and faced the consulting detective, nodding a greeting.

"Sherlock".

His eyes' widened, and he reminded himself to chuckle later because he had just surprised Sherlock Holmes.

"So, what do you want me to do?" he asked, making sure his question could be heard as directed towards Lestrade as well as Sherlock. He really didn't mind which one of them told him, and he didn't care if everyone in the room noticed. It was the DI who answered, Sherlock staring at him like he was an interesting specimen, John looking pleased but, strangely, not surprised (had the DI told him about his proclamation in the cafeteria?)

"We have Colonel Moran in custody and have already secured his weapon. Just make sure we haven't overlooked anything".

"As if I could have overlooked anything", Sherlock murmured indignantly, and he simply walked past him, replying "Doesn't hurt to make sure".

He could feel the consulting detective's eyes following him, until Lestrade dragged him and John into another room, exclaiming that he couldn't wait another minute for an explanation, and Anderson hid a smile.

Naturally, Sherlock hadn't overlooked anything.

Or so he thought, for ten minute later he found the gun in a dark corner.

And he could immediately think of an explanation for it being there.

John Watson owned a gun, he had seen it once. And there had been a struggle, he could tell that.

And the gun had the right calibre – it might very well be the gun that shot Jeff Hope all those years ago.

John must have dropped it during the struggle and have it forgotten in the confusion.

It was unlikely that John would serve time for this, but it would be utterly inconvenient and once again put Sherlock Holmes and his blogger in the headlines, just when his return would already cause a big enough sensation.

He didn't think much about it. He called, simply, "Sir, could you send Sherlock over for a minute?"

There must have been something in his voice even Sherlock couldn't ignore, because the consulting detective came to the door only a moment later.

"What is it, Anderson?" he asked with the old impatience but without the old malice.

He simply asked, "Just wanted to make sure I haven't overlooked anything", and he saw Sherlock's gaze drop to the gun at the floor.

He turned around, pretending to examine the floor, and heard Sherlock pick it up. The consulting detective didn't leave the room, though, so he turned to face him again.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he said, "Thank you".

"You're welcome". He added, "I'm sorry".

"For what?" Sherlock seemed confused, and he wanted to explain, but didn't know how when the consulting detective realized and waved a hand. "No worries. It was Moriarty's plan. If it hadn't been you and Donavan, it would have been someone else".

He nodded and replied, "All the same".

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and scrutinized him for a moment, then he nodded too and left without another word.

Naturally, Sherlock's return caused a sensation. Naturally, suddenly, people at the Yard were much nicer to him. Others declared openly that they would never believe another word he said. He didn't care about it.

Because he soon became known as "Holmes' forensic guy".

They weren't friends, they most likely never would be, but Sherlock specifically requested his presence at crime scenes as "the least annoying of them all". He was honoured.

Especially since he was soon being called by Sherlock personally, who had obviously decided after a few months that he needed to have his phone number.

Apparently he needed a little bit of madness in his life. So be it then.

As long as it meant Sherlock Holmes was alive, he was more than ready for it.

**Author's note: Bonding! Sherlock and Anderson bonding!**

**... I am losing my mind, ain't I?**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


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